


For All the Reasons We Can Think to Hate You

by BlueRoanSky



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, excessive use of the f-word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-28 01:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRoanSky/pseuds/BlueRoanSky
Summary: Barb happens, then the Upside Down, then Nancy, then the Upside Down again, and afterward, Steve’s justdone. He doesn’t know why anyone thinks he’s equipped to handle that much stress in that short of a time, but they’re all fucking insane and should be institutionalized. If they can reserve a room for Steve when they get there, too, that’d be great, thanks.





	1. Can We Last Through the Winter?

**Author's Note:**

> Annnd I'm back with another fic because I apparently can't focus on any one thing for too long. I'm so sorry.
> 
> This fic is very Steve-centric, at least in the beginning. It's unfinished and unplanned, thus the "additional tags to be added." I really don't know where I'm going with this, but I'm hoping to see it through to the end.
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> >Excessive swearing  
> >Barely-referenced abuse  
> >Self-harm (described, but not very graphically)
> 
> If any of these things bother you, please read with caution.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!
> 
> _Fic title is from the song "Stare Like You'll Stay" by Circa Survive, and the chapter title is from the song "In Fear and Faith" by Circa Survive._

Barb happens, then the Upside Down, then Nancy, then the Upside Down again, and afterward, Steve’s just _done_. He doesn’t know why anyone thinks he’s equipped to handle that much stress in that short of a time, but they’re all fucking insane and should be institutionalized. If they can reserve a room for Steve when they get there, too, that’d be great, thanks.

School is like a fucked-up dream of reality. People think he _cares_ that he’s not “the king” anymore, but he doesn’t give a single shit about that—can’t remember when or _why_ he even cared in the first fucking place. He quits basketball because it’s stupid and meaningless and the team doesn’t need him with Billy _fucking_ Hargrove leading them all to victory. He’d quit school, too, if he wasn’t absolutely sure his dad would murder him for it. He doesn’t know why school is the one thing his parents actually seem to care about, since they obviously don’t give a fuck about him, with how often they’re just _gone_. But they probably want him to be able to move out and make something of his life, which is a sick joke because what the fuck is he going to do?

_You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington._

_You’re_ bullshit.

If it was possible to make money for being stupid and _bullshit_ , Steve would be fucking rich, apparently.

Driving Dustin and the rest of _the Party_ around is a lesson in how fucking old he is, because the kids don’t seem at all affected or traumatized by what they all went through. Okay, Will Byers maybe looks and acts a bit like a ghost now, but he was weird to begin with, so it’s not like it’s that fucking different. The rest of them, though? They act like nothing even fucking happened. They all almost _died_ —Steve included—and Steve’s the only one having problems coping. Considering he was only involved in the whole shit-storm because the kids dragged him into it, only for them to move on and Steve to have nightmares _every night_ , is just fucked.

And Nancy. Nancy tries to talk to him, like they’re friends or something. Like that’s even a fucking possibility after all the shit she put him through. Like he _wants_ to be friends with her and Jonathan, who stepped in to take Steve’s place with absolutely no fucking hesitation and even less remorse. Nancy finds him in the hallways during school to try and talk to him.

“I’m _worried_ about you, Steve,” she says, hugging her books to her chest. “You’re so distant lately. Are you sleeping okay? Do you want to talk?”

A thousand responses jump into Steve’s mind, but he bites them all back and just says, “I’m fine.”

She frowns the way she does when she isn’t getting what she wants. “I’m just concerned about you.”

Steve slams his locker shut. “That’s not your fucking _job_ anymore, is it?” he says, and leaves her standing by his locker with wide eyes and an open mouth.

And it’s just such fucking _bullshit_ that she doesn’t even look _stupid_.

#

Steve doesn’t see Billy much without basketball to tie them together, which is fine because Billy’s a psycho that tried to kill him, but it’s also kind of fucked up because Billy’s really the only person not pissing Steve off every day. Which is probably even more fucked up, but considering the hole Steve’s life decided to jump into, it really just makes sense that everything would stop making sense.

Mostly, Steve only sees Billy when their paths cross while driving the kids around. Billy almost exclusively takes Max everywhere she needs to go, and Steve somehow got roped into driving the other kids around (as if getting roped into fighting mutant dogs from another dimension and almost _dying_ wasn’t enough), so he almost always ends up in the same place as Billy one way or another. Not that either of them really has anything to say to each other, but Steve ends up almost looking forward to seeing Billy, if only because Billy is the only person that leaves him the fuck alone.

Normally, anyway.

This particular afternoon, Billy saunters up to him after the kids run, loudly, into the arcade. He’s wearing sunglasses that only partially hide the bruise coloring his cheekbone, but the shit-eating grin on his face erases any sympathy Steve may have felt about Billy’s inability to dodge whatever punch was thrown at him. “Harrington,” Billy says, stopping a couple feet away, as if that distance means fucking anything if he decides to completely lose his mind again.

“Hargrove,” Steve says with next to no emotion in his voice. It’s better than sounding afraid, which he is, a little, but he’s also not, because he survived the fucking Demogorgon and demodogs and the Upside Down and all the crazy shit that happened, so really, what is Billy compared to all that? What is _anything_ compared to all that?

“Aw, don’t sound so happy to see me.” Billy slides his hands into his jean pockets. “I came over to tell you that you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve says, leaning back against his car. “How fucking kind of you. Do you want a medal for doing a good deed?”

Billy laughs, though it’s not a nice sound. “You’ve got teeth today,” he says.

Steve sighs. “Fuck off, Hargrove. Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

“Nah.” Billy shrugs. “Don’t you know? You’re my _favorite_.”

And that’s about it for Steve, because he’s no one’s favorite fucking _anything_ , and if he was going to choose the kind of favorite he’d be, it wouldn’t be the favorite play-toy of a psychopath. Steve’s just too fucking tired for this _bullshit_. He pushes off his car, and Billy looks confused, maybe a little guarded, but Steve just gets in his car and brings the engine to life. The kids won’t be done for a while, so there’s really no good fucking reason for Steve to stick around, and the shock on Billy’s face when Steve just drives off makes it even more worth it.

#

He ends up at a diner that, what it lacks in customer service, it makes up for in delicious food. Steve, of course, orders just a soda, because he hasn’t been truly hungry since that night in the tunnels, and he drinks it slowly as he stares at the empty side of his booth. There was a time when he wouldn’t be caught dead sitting alone in public, but that time might as well be centuries ago for how much it fucking matters.

He's gone through two sodas and five bites of a hamburger he ordered just so he won’t get bitched at for taking up a table when Tommy and Carol walk in. Steve’s never seen them in this fucking diner before, so he has no idea what they’re doing here now, but since the universe hates Steve’s fucking guts, Tommy sees him almost immediately. Things haven’t been _bad_ between them, but they haven’t been _good_ , either, so when Tommy sidles over with Carol in tow, it takes _great_ restraint for Steve to not instantly tell them to fuck off.

“Steve Harrington!” Tommy crows, like he’s just run into a celebrity. Exactly one person looks over, and it’s not at Steve, but at Tommy, for being the obnoxious shit that he is. Tommy drops down into the booth, pulling Carol onto his lap, and they both grin at him like he just made their fucking day. “Fancy seeing you here, Steve.”

“Fuck off, Tommy,” Steve says, and he doesn’t understand why Tommy looks at him like _Steve’s_ the fucking asshole, because he waited at least 14.2 seconds before speaking, so Tommy should really just be fucking grateful.

“You’re such a downer lately, Steve,” Carol says before Tommy can think of a retort.

“Yeah, _Steve_ ,” Tommy mocks, his voice high and whiny. “Why aren’t you fun anymore?”

Steve shoves his empty soda glass toward the end of the table. “Depends on your definition of fun.”

Without asking, Carol slides Steve’s abandoned plate toward her and cuts the hamburger in half with one of the tarnished butter knives. 

“Just fucking help yourself,” Steve says, his gaze caught by the knife.

“ _You_ weren’t eating it.” Carol bites into her half and sits back against Tommy’s chest. “And what’s your definition of fun nowadays?”

Steve drags his gaze up, meeting Tommy’s narrow-eyed stare for only a moment before he pulls his wallet from his pocket. “None of your fucking business,” Steve says, tossing bills on the table.

Tommy shifts, like he’s thinking of getting up to follow. “Steve—”

“Don’t make me fucking repeat myself, Tommy,” Steve snaps, and stalks out to his car. He should get back to the arcade, and anyway, who the fuck does Tommy think he is? Steve doesn’t need him.

Steve doesn’t need fucking _anyone_.

#

Billy doesn’t talk to Steve when he gets back to the arcade, which is just as fucking well, because Steve doesn’t want to talk to him anyway. The kids chatter around him as he drives them home, and he pretends to listen, adding a _hmm_ or _wow_ where necessary. Whether they buy his reactions doesn’t really matter because they’re kids, and _honorary Party member_ or not, Steve isn’t really their friend. If he wasn’t willing to drive them around, he doubts they’d even talk to him.

It’s already dark by the time he gets home. He turns on every light he passes, then turns them off, then back on, then just some of them off. He can never decide if he wants the lights on so he can see the monsters coming or if he’d prefer to just get eaten when he can’t see what’s doing it. In the end, he leaves half the lights on, which is almost worse because now there are shadows all over and the house is too quiet. It’s like living in a horror movie, except Steve isn’t too stupid to recognize when death is coming his way.

He gets in bed earlier than any self-respecting teenager should when they’re alone in their house and closes his eyes…

…Only to open them inside the fucking tunnels. It’s dark and cramped, and the air is thick with the scent of death and alien creatures. He looks around for the kids, but he’s alone in this hell-portal to the Upside Down. He flexes his fingers, but his bat is nowhere to be found, and though he knows this is a dream—he _always_ knows this is a fucking dream—it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

Chills run up his spine, raising the delicate hairs on his skin. His heart beats loudly like approaching footfalls, and he breathes in short, quick pants. The slick mud squelches under his shoes as he creeps forward, ears straining for the slightest sound.

Something skitters behind him. He whirls to face it, but there’s nothing there. He exhales a shuddering breath, turns back around—

—And Dustin’s shocked, pale face stares out at him from the tunnel walls. His eyes are wide, his mouth twisted, and he breathes out a tortured, “ _Steve_ …” He chokes as vines wrap and tighten around him, and a viscous liquid spews from his mouth.

Steve stumbles backward and trips, falling hard on his ass. His fingers brush something smooth and ice cold, and he looks down into Mike’s dead eyes staring straight at him. Steve staggers to his feet and runs, barely managing to keep his footing on the uneven ground with vines and hands grasping at his heels. He darts past more faces—Lucas, Nancy, Max, Jonathan—and their empty, glazed eyes follow him, accusing.

He shouts when he falls face-first into the mud. He spits it out as he pushes to his hands and knees, only now it’s blood. The metallic tang fills his mouth and nose until he can’t breathe, he can’t think, and his vision blurs. He tries to crawl forward, but he’s sinking, sinking, sinking. The unearthly howls of the demodogs echo in the tunnels, and Steve can’t fucking _see_ anymore because everything is dripping black and red. Hot breaths ghost over his skin, and it’s worse, it’s so much worse, to not be able to see what’s come for him, what’s going to kill and eat him in these godforsaken tunnels.

A growl sounds from right in front of his blind eyes, and it grows louder and louder until Steve’s drowning in the sound…

…And it’s him, he’s screaming and thrashing, his legs caught in his blankets. He struggles to free himself, throws his sweat-soaked blanket off the bed, shakes and shivers and shudders with the absolute certainty that he’s fucking _dying_.

The fear is overwhelming, and he’s fumbling through the drawer in his nightstand before he’s really even made the decision to do so. His fingers find cold metal, and he picks up the razor blade with a shaking hand. It’s been years since he’s done this—other vices having taken over in the meantime—but he’d have to get out of bed to get drunk or high, and that’s just not fucking happening.

The blade bites easily into his skin. He gasps at the pain of it, but he doesn’t stop until there’s a diagonal line oozing blood all the way across his wrist. He drops the bloody razor on his nightstand and grabs some tissues, hissing at the pressure he applies to the cut. Blood has already dripped down his arm and splattered on his sheets, but he doesn’t really care. No one’s going to see it anyway.

It takes a while before the bleeding slows enough for Steve to bandage the cut, so when he finally lays back down, he’s too exhausted and distracted by the throbbing, stinging pain to think much about his nightmare. He closes his eyes, feeling more relaxed than he has in weeks, and for once, he doesn’t find himself back in the tunnels.


	2. This is What it Takes to Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. I hope the chapter is worth it!
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> >Implied suicidal thoughts  
> >Sort-of implied child abuse  
> >Barely-described self-harm
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
>  _Chapter title from the song "Built for Blame" by Get Scared_.

Steve arrives early to school the next morning because he actually got some fucking sleep the night before, so he wasn’t rushing out the door half-awake like normal. ‘Course, now, he’s stuck in the parking lot in the fucking cold while he waits for the school to actually open, so that’s not ideal at _all_ , but he pulls out a cigarette and leans on his car because _fuck_ it.

The loud-ass roar of the Camaro’s engine is the only warning Steve gets before Billy’s car slides into a nearby parking spot. Steve almost climbs back in his car just to avoid some _bullshit_ conversation, but for once, he has enough energy to handle whatever shit Billy may throw his way, so Steve plants his feet. Billy should be proud.

Billy, of course, only looks ready to start shit as he exits his car with the grace of a fucking gazelle, but his eyes, when they lock on Steve, are straight from a hunting tiger. There’s another bruise now on Billy’s jaw, and Steve can’t help but think that Billy would look _so_ much more presentable if he’d stop getting into stupid fucking fights.

And got rid of the mullet, but that’s a whole other fucking thing.

“So, Harrington,” Billy says as he saunters over, “you still got those teeth today?”

Steve flicks his lit cigarette at Billy. “What’s it fucking matter?”

Billy picks up the remainder of the cigarette. “I like when you have teeth. It’s…” He takes a drag. “…entertaining.”

Steve lights another cigarette from his pack. “Don’t cream your pants.”

Billy wags his tongue, which is fucking gross, but also interesting, because it’s not really the reaction Steve expected. Other cars start pulling up before Steve can decide on a response, so he grabs his backpack from the backseat of his car and heads for the school building.

He feels Billy’s eyes on his back the whole way.

#

Tommy corners Steve in the fucking bathroom, of all places, right before lunch. “We need to talk,” he says, and Steve, who doesn’t fucking _care_ , starts to step around him. Tommy’s hand shoots out and curls around Steve’s left arm, and that stops him dead—not because it hurts, which it does, but because Tommy fucking _knows_.

“Let go,” Steve says.

“Not until we talk.” Tommy’s mouth is set, and though his grip on Steve’s arm loosens slightly, it’s still strong.

“We don’t need to _talk_ , Tommy.” Steve tugs against Tommy’s hold, suppressing a wince at the stinging pain that rips up his arm.

Tommy’s lips thin. “We don’t? Not even about—”

And Steve punches him in the face, because they’re not fucking _friends_ , he doesn’t need Tommy’s _help_ , and it’s not his fucking _business_ what Steve does. Tommy only stumbles back because of his surprise, but it’s enough to free Steve’s wrist, and he stalks out of the bathroom before Tommy can recover enough to speak.

He doesn’t escape the hallway fast enough to miss Tommy calling after him, “You’re burning all your bridges, Steve. Think about that.”

Steve doesn’t think about it, because it doesn’t matter. He’ll burn all his fucking bridges. It’s not like there are a lot of them to begin with.

#

After school, it’s dropping the kids off at the arcade, again, because Steve has nothing better to do with his time, apparently, and the moms are just _so grateful_ for his help. The kids barely notice him as he drives, and they only throw out a “thanks, Steve!” as they tumble out of his car. He refrains from flipping them off behind their backs because _they’re_ not really the problem. His fucking arm hurts like a _bitch_.

He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, wishing he had something stronger than a cigarette to get high with. His cut pulses painfully with every heartbeat, and he mentally curses out Tommy for aggravating it with his earlier stunt. Sure, maybe he didn’t know its exact location, but he seemed to know it was _there_ , so he could’ve grabbed Steve’s _other_ arm.

He jumps at a knock on the passenger side window. Billy’s face peers in with a smirk just before he opens the door Steve stupidly left unlocked and plops down in the passenger seat.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, Harrington,” Billy says.

Steve sighs. “You’re high.”

“I am?” Billy frowns. “When’d that happen?”

“Right before you got in my fucking car, apparently, if you think I’m going anywhere with you.”

“Aw, come on,” Billy says. “Hanging with me can only be more fun than waiting out here.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Really? ‘Cause my face hurt for weeks after the _last_ time you got involved in my shit.”

“You got any other shady shit going on right now?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll be peachy,” Billy says.

#

They end up smoking at the quarry, sitting on the ground with their backs against Steve’s car. Steve doesn’t even think of how easy it’d be for Billy to murder him and toss his body into the water, because Billy would probably be doing Steve a favor, at this point. It’s almost comforting to think that the kids might try to figure out who murdered him, though—if only so they know who to blame for having to ride their bikes everywhere.

“The little shits are annoying, huh?” Billy says, his voice breaking the quiet like shattering ice.

“They’re not all bad.”

Billy snorts. “Right.”

“You drive Max everywhere,” Steve says, exhaling smoke. “Why do that if you don’t like her at least a little?”

“It’s not about liking her or not.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Billy blows smoke into the air and doesn’t answer. Steve doesn’t push the question because it’s really not that important, and the quiet falls over them again like a blanket. Steve closes his eyes, leaning his head back against his car.

“You got blood on your sleeve.”

Steve starts at the suddenness of Billy’s statement. “What’s your point?”

Billy shrugs. “Where’s it from?”

“My veins.”

“Obviously. Why’re you bleeding?”

“Why’re you bruised?”

The silence is heavy and long. Steve goes through another two cigarettes before Billy speaks again.

“Think we should head back to the arcade.”

Steve nods. “Sure thing.”

They don’t talk on the drive back, which suits Steve just fine. When he parks the car, Billy gets out and walks away without looking back.

#

The next couple days pass without incident. Steve catches Nancy staring at him a few times in the halls like she wants to talk to him, but he pretends he doesn’t notice her or Jonathan, who’s always with her like some weird fucking shadow. Tommy goes back to acting like Steve doesn’t exist, except for the couple times he casts a glance at Steve’s arms, like he can see through Steve’s fucking sleeves.

And Billy is Billy—loud, obnoxious, and altogether not a part of Steve’s life.

But, on Thursday, Billy doesn’t show up to school. Steve only notices, really, because the halls are suddenly so much _quieter_. He doesn’t really care where Billy is, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. It isn’t until after school, when Max shows up at his car, that Steve really feels the ramifications of Billy being gone.

“Steve,” Max says, shifting from one foot to the other. “Um, would you be able to take me home?”

Steve holds in a sigh. “Isn’t there a bus or something?”

“Yeah, but.” She bites her lip. “It gets to my house late sometimes, and Neil—my stepdad is really strict about that sort of thing.”

Steve raises an eyebrow.

Max blows out a breath. “Billy…isn’t feeling good. If I’m home late, Neil will…get on Billy about it.”

Steve wants to ask why the fuck she cares what happens to Billy, and also why the fuck _Steve_ should care, but he just says, “Fine, get in.”

She tosses her backpack and skateboard in the backseat before settling in the front. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Yeah, sure.” He pulls out of his parking spot. “Billy miss school today ‘cause he’s sick?”

“Something like that,” Max says.

“Something like that?” Steve asks, but when he doesn’t get an answer—and isn’t that just so fucking similar to Billy?—he turns the radio on.

The rest of the drive is quiet except for the music playing through the speakers. When Steve finally stops the car in front of Max’s house, she hops out and grabs her stuff. “Thanks again, Steve,” she says.

“No prob—” he starts, but she’s already bounding toward her front door. Shaking his head, he backs away from the house and heads home.

#

School on Friday also sees a lack of Billy, so when Max shows up again at Steve’s car at the end of the school day, he’s not even surprised. He doesn’t wait for her to ask before he motions for her to get in, and she does so with a relieved smile. Steve doesn’t feel much like talking, so he lets music fill the quiet again on the drive. He only speaks when he reaches her house.

“Dustin and the others wanted to hit the arcade tonight. You gonna need a ride?”

She twists her hands together. “I think Billy will be fine enough to drive me. If Neil says I can go.”

Steve nods. He only offered because he doesn’t want to deal with Dustin and the rest of _the Party_ getting on his ass about Max not being there. At least now, he can say he tried.

#

It turns out to not matter, as Billy arrives with Max shortly after Steve and the other kids. Max hurries into the arcade, and Steve waits for Billy to get out and come bug him, but it never happens. Steve fiddles with his radio, pulls out a cigarette, stuffs it back into the pack, and climbs out of his car. He knocks on the passenger side window of Billy’s car, and Billy doesn’t move except to unlock the doors. Steve takes that as an invitation and drops into the passenger seat.

“So, you been sick?” Steve asks.

“That what Max said?”

“She said you weren’t feeling well.”

Billy finally turns to look at Steve, who barely manages to hide his surprise at the new bruise blooming on Billy’s cheek and the livid cut in the center of it. “At least she’s honest.”

Steve clears his throat. “You haven’t been in school.”

“You got a point, Harrington?”

“Who’d you get in a fight with?”

“Why do you care? Wanna see what he looks like? Tall, dark hair, mustache—”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Forget it.”

“If only.”

Steve pulls out a cigarette. “You mind?”

Billy grins. “Only if you don’t share.” Steve holds out another cigarette, and Billy takes it, offering his lighter. “To sharing.”

#

That night, Steve claws his way back to consciousness after another familiar nightmare with a scream in his throat. Sweating and shaking, he grabs his razor blade and cuts into his arm until his breathing slows. He passes out before he can even grab a bandage.


	3. I'm Cool, I'm Great, I'm a Jerk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little shorter than normal. It seemed like a good place to end it. I hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, thank you so much for your comments and kudos. They seriously mean SO much to me!
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> >Referenced self-harm
> 
>  
> 
> _Chapter title from the song "That Day" by Tokio Hotel._

Steve wakes at noon to a pounding headache and his arm on fucking _fire_. He blinks his room into existence, along with the bright spots of red staining his beige sheets, and the dried blood on his arm cracks when he sits up. He hisses when the new scabs split and expel beads of blood, and he throws his blanket over the stains on his sheets before making his way to the bathroom.

After a quick shower and some half-assed bandaging, he meanders downstairs in a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants to make coffee and try to find some food to quell his awful fucking headache. He’s only just started the coffeemaker when someone pounds on his front door, and he considers ignoring it, but the pounding is joined by the incessant ring of his doorbell, and that’s just too fucking much for his head.

He throws open his door and snarls, “ _What_?”

Dustin crosses his arms. “What do you mean, _what_? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you _all morning_. I thought you _died_ , Steve.”

“Did you come here to kill me yourself?” Steve asks. “Because otherwise, I might have to murder _you_ for being so _fucking loud_.”

Dustin’s expression is unimpressed. “Empty threats don’t become you, Steve.”

Steve exhales loudly. “Who even _talks_ like that?” He wanders back to his kitchen because he’s _really_ going to need some fucking coffee if he has to deal with Dustin right now.

Dustin follows, shutting the front door behind him. “Are you sure you’re not dead, Steve? You look like a zombie.”

“How could I be dead and also answer the door?” Steve asks, resisting the urge to curse out his coffeemaker for not being done yet.

“If you were a zombie, you’d still have minimal brain functioning.”

Steve closes his eyes for a moment. “Why are you here, Dustin?”

“Well, it’s warmer today, so we all wanted to go to the quarry. I wanted to leave this morning, but Mike said it was too cold, and Lucas said that Max probably couldn’t leave her house that early, so I said _fine_ , we can _wait_ , which was better, anyway, since I couldn’t get ahold of you, and—”

“Oh my _God_ , I haven’t had enough coffee for this,” Steve says. “Dustin, what is your _point_?”

Dustin frowns. “I thought that was obvious. Will you take us to the quarry today?”

“Do I look like I want to go to the quarry?” Steve asks, pulling out a coffee mug because the coffee is _finally_ fucking done.

“What would someone who wants to go to the quarry even look like?”

Steve dumps creamer in his coffee—not because he prefers it, but because he needs it to cool down so he can drink it faster and have enough energy to be patient. He downs half his mug and then says, “That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

“But, _Steve_ ,” Dustin starts, and Steve holds up a hand.

“Don’t start. I’ll take you to the quarry. Just spare me the chatter.”

Dustin grins. “Thanks, Steve! You can pick up the others, right? Max should be getting a ride from Billy, so she’s good, but Mike and…”

As Dustin chatters, Steve pours more coffee instead of banging his head against a fucking wall, and that, he thinks, should earn him a gold fucking star.

#

At the quarry, Steve freezes his ass off and mopes. It’s _warmer_ today, the kids insisted, but they didn’t want to acknowledge that _warmer_ doesn’t mean _warm_. Steve only went along with their batshit crazy plan because they weren’t going to leave him alone anyway, but now, he’s thinking he should’ve barricaded himself in his room. He’s going to fucking freeze to death out here.

Billy drops down next to him in clothing that’s actually weather-appropriate for once, and it irks Steve that Billy is more prepared for the cold than Steve is. Billy’s from fucking _California_ , for fuck’s sake. California doesn’t know shit about the cold.

“Who pissed in your pancakes?” Billy asks.

“ _What_?” Steve blinks. “I didn’t even have pancakes this—”

“A joke, Harrington.” Billy pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Steve. “You sleep at all last night? You look like shit again.”

Steve accepts the cigarette and pulls his lighter out. “I did sleep, thanks.”

“Well, I know you don’t look awful naturally, so what gives?”

Steve shrugs, inhaling smoke and resisting the urge to tug his sleeve down. “Don’t know. One of those days.” Billy nods like he understands, and Steve thinks that maybe he does. “You not going in the water? I figured you’d be all over it.”

“Nah,” Billy says, looking away. “Nothing like the ocean, and it’s cold as fuck out here.”

“That all?”

Billy narrows his eyes. “What the fuck else is there?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Steve says.

“What about you? No swimming for you?”

“Like you said, it’s cold as fuck.”

“Right.”

They lapse into a silence that feels tense and full—like they’re both skirting the edges of something they’re unwilling to acknowledge. Steve knows he has his own demons, but he’s starting to think Billy has some, too.

#

Steve takes a shower that night to properly clean his arm, and he winces at the damage he did. He scrubs the remaining dried blood and old scabs away, finishes his shower, and dries off carefully to avoid getting fresh blood on his towel. He takes his time bandaging his cuts, and afterward, he falls asleep to the persistent throbbing from his arm.

#

When he drags himself out of bed in the morning after a night of tossing and turning, it’s to find that he’s out of milk, which makes _zero_ fucking sense because he doesn’t even remember using milk recently, but his stomach screams for cereal, so he sighs and grabs his keys. It’s a short drive to the supermarket and an even shorter walk to the fridge aisles, but when he turns around, he stops because Billy _fucking_ Hargrove is just a few feet away in the condiments aisle.

“What’re you doing here?” Steve asks before he can think better of it.

Billy smirks at him. “Picking up food?”

“Yeah, no, I get that, but.” Steve gestures at the food. “It’s just so…normal.”

“And that would make me—”

“Billy!” Max says, rounding the corner, and Billy freezes. Max looks at Steve a little wild-eyed, but before any of them can say anything, Neil Hargrove appears with Susan pushing a half-filled cart next to him. Steve’s barely interacted with Billy’s dad and Max’s mom, but he’s seen them around town often enough to recognize them.

“Billy,” Neil says with a smile, “you find the ketchup?”

Billy snatches a bottle of ketchup off the shelf. “Yes, sir.”

Neil’s smile turns a little hard. “I think you’re capable of putting it in the cart, aren’t you?”

Billy nods once, jerkily, and carefully places the ketchup in the cart.

Susan looks at Steve with a strained smile. “Steve Harrington, yes?”

Steve tears his gaze away from Billy to look at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you for your assistance in driving Max around,” Susan says. “We appreciate it.”

“Yes,” Neil says. “It’s helpful to have someone respectful and responsible around.”

Billy flinches, but he doesn’t say anything. Steve frowns and opens his mouth, but Max jumps in and says, “Can we go home soon? I have some homework to finish before tomorrow.”

Susan turns to Neil, who says, “Of course. Come on, Billy. Say good-bye to your friend.”

“We’re not friends,” Billy says, and adds, “sir.”

Neil raises his eyebrows. “Well, Steve, nice seeing you.”

Steve says, a little dumbly, “Yeah, you, too.”

Billy doesn’t look back as he leaves with his family, and Steve watches him go with his forgotten milk in his hand.

#

The run-ins with people Steve doesn’t really want to see don’t end at the supermarket. When he pulls back into his driveway, it’s to find Nancy’s car already there. She gets out of her car as he parks, and Steve takes a moment to prepare himself for talking to her before he leaves the relative safety of his vehicle.

“Where were you?” Nancy asks as soon as Steve nears her.

He raises an eyebrow. “Not really any of your business anymore.”

Her lips purse, but she eyes the milk in Steve’s hand and says, “I thought you might’ve been hanging out with Billy.”

That stops Steve in his path to his front door, and he turns back to her. “Why would you think that?”

She shifts on her feet. “I’ve heard you were spending time with him.”

Steve rolls his eyes and unlocks his door. “Not really.”

“So, you’re not friends with Billy?” she asks, following him inside.

Billy’s denial of their status as friends at the supermarket flashes through Steve’s mind. “No, I’m not friends with Billy.”

“Good. He’s a bad influence.”

Steve busies himself making the cereal he’s been craving all morning and doesn’t respond.

“Don’t you agree?” Nancy asks, leaning against the counter.

Steve shrugs. “He’s been fine lately.”

Nancy’s mouth drops open. “He’s been _fine_ lately? Did you forget that he almost _killed_ you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“But you’re still okay with hanging out with him?”

Steve closes a cupboard too loudly. “Yeah, I am. Just like _you’re_ still fine getting all up in my shit even though _you_ broke up with me. Did you forget _that_?”

Nancy stares at him, wide-eyed. “That’s—”

“What? Not the same?”

“I’m just _concerned_ —”

“Let me spare you the trouble,” Steve says. “You don’t have to be _concerned_ about me. You don’t have to _care_ about or _approve_ of who I choose to hang out with. We’re not _together_ anymore, so go nag Jonathan and leave me the _fuck_ alone.”

Nancy’s lower lip quivers, and she blinks quickly. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” she says, almost in a whisper, and turns on her heel.

As she stalks toward the front door, Steve calls after her, “You forgot _bullshit_.”


End file.
